


The Ballad of Leamas and Fiedler

by VesperNexus



Category: The Spy Who Came in from the Cold - John Le Carré
Genre: Angst, Drabbles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-11-18 09:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11288544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperNexus/pseuds/VesperNexus
Summary: A series of unconnected moments between Fiedler and Leamas. Love, angst, hurt.





	1. These Moments

**Author's Note:**

> So I have moments in my head but no plot.

He likes these moments best of all.

When he can slide his arms around Jens’ waist, his palms flat against the small of his back. He draws him in real close, until they are hip-to-hip and he can feel the soft rise and fall of his lover’s chest. Jens will look at him from beneath his lashes and tilt his chin, the sun catching on his features and painting him like a picture of Dorian Gray. There’s a small smile on his lips, and it’s shy and endearing and ever-so lovely. And Alec will shift his hold and dip him back, relishing in the quiet sound of surprise he draws from his lover’s throat. There will be no uncertainty or unquiet, because they both know Alec would never let him fall. And then he kisses him, slowly, languidly, like they have all the time in the world. He will enjoy the peculiar bitter-sweetness on Jens’ tongue. Jens will fist his hands in Alec’s shirt, his delicate fingers curling tightly into the collar. His legs will part ever so slightly and his eyes will flutter shut and he will let himself be kissed senseless. There will be no expectations, no deadlines. Just Jens and Alec and all the lovely spaces in between.

Yes, he certainly likes these moments best of all.


	2. Dance with me

“Dance with me.”

Leamas glances up, eyebrow rising at Fiedler’s outstretched hand.

“I’m sorry?”

Fiedler sighs and tilts his head. One dark lock falls to frame a sculpted cheekbone. “Do you have anything better to do?”

His voice is soft and harmonic, and his lips are upturned at the corner. Leamas hasn’t gotten used to his companion’s strange antics yet. He shakes his head and complies anyway, fitting his coarse palm along those thin, delicate fingers.

The music quietly crackles in the corner, fluttering like the beat of butterfly wings from the old gramophone. It’s soft, lovely, a mix of trumpets and flutes and all things inherently pretty.

He stands, and Fiedler shifts backwards, guiding them to the middle of the small room. The fabric of his suit shifts quietly against his slender figure, pulling as he places one thin hand on Leamas’ broad shoulder.

“Put your hand my waist.”

Leamas looks at him. He feels ridiculous.

“Alec.” There it is. The fragile sort of determination woven into the spectacularly breathless way Fiedler mouths his name. The German’s lips are pressed together, his chin tilted upwards to make up for the height difference. The line of his jaw looks especially defined from here, the sharpness of his collarbone accentuated from where is peaks beneath his shirt. He is close enough to kiss.

And so, Leamas obliges. He has never been good at saying no to Fiedler.

His fingers curl slowly around the narrow waist, and he takes a second to marvel at how perfectly his hand fits in all the concave places of Fiedler’s delicate body. Like they were made for him.

Fiedler lifts their joined hands to shoulder height, bending at the elbow. He inches a little bit closer, pressing their bodies together. Leamas can feel all his jutting bones, the flatness of his chest, the protruding ribcage firm against him. There’s nothing particularly sexual about the moment, and that’s what makes him tighten his fingers around Fiedler’s. There are no urges deep in his belly or further, no reserve or expectation. It’s just them. Fiedler and Leamas. Jens and Alec. That’s all he really needs right now.

He tightens his fingers around Fiedler’s and clears his throat. “I’m going to tread on your toes.”

Fiedler’s laugh echoes like a bell. “I’d be surprised if you didn’t.”

Leamas snorts, and Fiedler shifts one foot back. He follows suit, mimicking all of Fiedler’s movements. His feet moved with a confident precision, careful and slow for Leamas. Guiding him. After a few moments and few treads of brogues on oxfords, they adapt to a calm rhythm. Leamas does not bother looking anywhere but Fiedler’s eyes, marvellous in their darkness, their quiet. They move in tandem, carried by the soft thrill of the music. They dance as if they had always been dancing, as if this were not the first time.

Fiedler leans in and lays his head against Leamas’ chest, right by his chin. His soft hair tickles Leamas’ skin, feeling exceptionally pleasant.

Leamas rests his cheek against the top of Fiedler’s head and holds him. Just holds him. It could have been seconds or minutes or hours and Leamas would not have known. It is cathartic, holding that slender figure to him, feeling the strong beat of his heart against his own.

They don’t have many moments like this. They have so little time, always so rushed, so pressed, so _urgent._ It is not often they hold each other just to feel secure. Leamas relishes in it: in the _peace_ which expands the space between his ribs.

Fiedler is leaning heavily on him. Leamas has no trouble holding up his slight weight. He can almost feel the tension sliding from his companion’s shoulders like water and he knows it’s because of him, because he’s holding him and telling him _it’s okay_ through the press of his fingers into the small of his back, through the light butterfly kisses he presses to the crown of his head.

This moment is so precious is almost hurts. At some point, the music stops, and at some point, they stop dancing. But Leamas does not relinquish his hold, and Fiedler does not lift his head.


	3. Wunderschön

The sunlight casts him in an almost ethereal glow, streaming through the drapes in sharp fragments. Leamas can only stare, for a moment, as the gold paints Jens’ pale complexion sensually.

Knelt between his lover’s parted legs, a feeling of serenity seems to come upon him. Gradual, it eases the tension from his shoulders to the curl of his toes. He leans forward, the bed creaking with his slow movements, until he has one open palm on the pillow, at either side of Jens’ head.

His hair is dishevelled and his smile quiet. He is calm as he lay there, head propped by the white pillow. Unburdened.

Alec leans in slowly until he finds Jens’ lips. They part for him invitingly, a soft hum of satisfaction rolling off his lover’s tongue. He kisses him slowly but firmly, tongue exploring the brilliant bittersweet taste between Jens’ teeth.

“Alec,” Jens whispers quietly into his mouth. Alec deepens the kiss, aligning his body more firmly with the East-German’s, whose legs open further, bent at the knees, to accommodate him.

They kiss for what may have been minutes or hours, Jens’ fingers brushing against Alec’s cheek and cradling his jaw. There was no war, no timeline, no fear or secrets. Only them.

When he breaks the kiss, Jens looks dazed beneath him. Happy. His eyelashes flutter as if he is trapped in some dream, and Alec loves him all the more.

His tongue maps the path from the hollow of Jens’ throat to his navel, encouraged by endearing, quiet moans. Nothing could make this moment more perfect. Knelt between the legs of his lover, his lips lay butterfly kisses on smooth skin, his fingers counting every rib on his way down. Down to his jutting hip bone, where he is particularly sensitive. Alec need only see the clench of Jens’ fingers into the sheets.

He kisses down those milky thighs and then between them – the skin unblemished and trembling. He takes his time from there, taking Jens’ apart with controlled work of a skilled tongue. He enjoys it, tasting his lover on his lips, hearing the growing pleas. When he looks up to see Jens’ back arched, his fingers curled, lips parted in a silent moan, it is enough. It is not a sight he will ever tire of.

He leaves Jens’ to catch his breath as he moves to lay back next to him. For a moment, neither say a thing, until Jens turns. Still trapped in the moment of bliss he only lays his head on Alec’s shoulder. Alec draws him closer, so they are perfectly aligned – two pieces of a jagged puzzle. He turns on his side, so one arm is bent beneath Jens’ chin while his other rests on his lover’s lower back, fingers brushing against the soft swell of his cheeks.

“Du bist wunderschön.”

Jens laughs in response, and it is lovely and unassuming. He blinks owlishly at Alec, planting one hand flat against his chest. Alec’s heartbeat is strong beneath his touch. He looks positively undone, and Alec feels warm knowing he is the only one who gets to see Jens like this.

“Ich liebe dich auch.”

Leamas buries his face in his lover’s soft hair. “I love you too,” he repeats, and it is enough.


	4. The last

“So this is it then?”

The room seems larger than ever, blank walls devouring the heavy silence between them. He stands on a knifes’ edge, teetering, gazing into the vicious abyss below. Amber light cast Jens in a shadow.

“I guess it is,” the words are bitter in Alec’s mouth. His tongue feels heavy between his lips. This is wrong.

They stare at each other, Jens looking anywhere but his eyes. A chasm has split open between them, like a gaping wound bleeding all the lies and half-truths. This is how it was always going to end. He knew. Of course he knew.

“Jens-” he looks up at him, purple bruising beneath his eyes. Light bounces off the hollow of his neck, dancing down a sharp jawline. Gone is the anger, the fear, the excitement. Alec looks across the chasm and sees resignation.

He takes a step forward. The echo of his heel against the wood is deafening, a glass shattering in a tight grip. He remembers cool hands against his flesh, _Alec_ whispered between them only for the dark to hear, fists clenched into pale sheets, nails digging into the curve of his back.

Another step. He’s getting breathless. Jens hasn’t moved. He remembers his fingers curled over slim hips, how their legs tangled by the fire.

Sound travels quickly here. Jens tilts his chin as Alec nears, a terrible sadness dripping from his eyes, his lashes. He hears his words from another lifetime.

“Jens.”

His hand moves on its own accord, fingers curving under Jens’ chin like the first thousand times. Jens doesn’t flinch, and Alec’s heart beats through his chest when he leans down, his lips dry against his lover’s.

It’s slow and quick and happens in a moment and takes _years._ Jens holds his breath as Alec kisses him like it’s the first time when it’s the last. He’s sure Alec can hear his heart fracturing from between his ribs.

“Alec.” The game is over.

“Jens…”

_I think I-_

“I’m sorry.”

_love you._

His lips curve, and Alec’s heart stutters.

_I think I love you._

“I know.”

The door thuds behind him, the noise eating up the hollow apartment to the rhythm of his splintering heart.

The game is over.


	5. Touch

There is a lot to admire about Fiedler.

It has taken Leamas all these weeks to admit it. Intellectually, the man is a masterpiece. His mind works with a frightening intensity, his words carefully crafted with a severe, harmonic voice – littered with allusions and suggestions and half-thoughts that could tie a man’s mind to a psychological prosaic of unspoken truths and dangerous ideas. He remembers Smiley’s voice, _enormously intelligent_ , and yet he could only see the depths of such a truth now, in the reflection of those dark, owlish eyes. Only when those red lips twist upwards and he leans in, and Leamas can feel those silky locks graze his cheek, does he see the ruthlessness Fiedler’s gaze: the desire, the _need_ to take Leamas apart, deconstruct him, make him come undone.

It is as invigorating as it is frightening, and Leamas will let himself become lost in the labyrinth time and time again.

And yet – there is so much more to the German which he is so inexplicably drawn to. It had taken him too long to acknowledge that his attraction far surpassed his admiration of Fiedler’s intellect.

He has only loved two women in his life, and yet he understands the basis for his desire: the way his hands fit comfortably on a curved body, the feel of his flat chest against the soft swell of breasts, the distinct higher-pitch when she cried _Alec._

Fiedler is none of those things: his body is thin and lithe, his hips narrow and jutting. Where his chest is not flat it is concave, and the only curves Leamas finds are in the way his ribs protrude so terribly he can count them beneath the fragile skin. His voice is young, yes, but it is smooth, silky and suggestive. It is not naïve or hopeful.

And yet.

Perhaps, Leamas considers, it is his hands.

Leamas has never seen such hands. Pale to the point of being ashen, and oh-so-thin. An unusually soft palm connecting long, slender fingers and neat fingernails. Wrists so thin he can easily wrap two fingers around them and they would meet. Fiedler’s hands look brittle, fragile. But his touch – his touch is anything but.

Leamas has learned to read Fiedler’s mood through these hands. At the beginning, it was only the simplest of things: the way he drummed three fingers across a tabletop when he was impatient, the way he stilled them so completely when he came across a particularly fascinating discovery.

And then: the way he would gently grip Leamas’ jaw and pull him down for a kiss, the way he would dig the blunts of his fingers into Alec’s shoulders, run his nails sensually down the ridges of his spine as they made love. His hands looked so fragile, but felt so strong.

It is remarkably fascinating how he can control every part of himself, how he turns the deadliest grasp into the gentlest touch. It is intoxicating.

Leamas is past the point of return now. He relishes in the feel of Fiedler’s hand in his own, so delicate, dwarfed in Leamas’ calloused hold.

He turns to his companion sitting on the opposite side of the wooden table, and draws Fiedler’s hand to him by his fingertips, bent at the joint. Leamas leans in and lays butterfly kisses along those delicate knuckles, relishing in the hitch in Fiedler’s soft breathing. His eyes darken and he smiles, a quiet, genuine smile.

Indeed, there is a lot to admire about him. 


	6. the spider and the fly

Fiedler is frayed.

Beneath the sharp lines of his bell-laugh, beneath the cruel twist of his terribly lovely lips, beneath that delicate glass jaw, Leamas sees the white marble crumbling from a renaissance sculpture worn down by grief and sorrow. It’s in the frame, he thinks, in all the jutting joints and fine bones. Once, the sharp edges drew blood from his fingers. It had terrified him, to see the red dyeing his calloused hands. To know he could look, but never touch.

Now, when his palms caress those once serrated ends, he digs his fingernails in and feels the thread loosen. He’s close enough to taste the sweet wariness on a dangerous tongue, to tug on the strand and unravel Fiedler: wash away the sarcasm and wit and self-assurance framed atop of a throne of ambition, expose the chains of fear and doubt which tether him to his bleak reality.

His desire to undo the wires stitching Fiedler’s broken body together is overwhelming. For once, he wants to pull the board from beneath the hand-crafted black and white pieces. He imagines how his eyes will burn into Fiedler as the man watches his very game fall apart around him.

Oh, how delicious it would be.

But he doesn’t. After all, it is not for the game. It is for him. It is for his personal indulgence, it is to satisfy his untamed hunger for Fiedler’s capacity to dissemble, his intellect, his brilliance. These are the towering walls of a labyrinth Leamas will gladly allow himself to become lost in.

This unaltered passion had festered between his ribs, growing until it was too large to suffocate. He had briefly wondered if it was love. Leamas has only been in love once. It had not taken him long to understand: this is not what love feels like. No, this is a clever little spider weaving an inescapable web for a naïve fly. But the fly is not naïve: it sees the glistening white rope and knows it can hover above the trap. And yet, it does not.

Perhaps it is because Leamas admires Fiedler’s persistence. Of course he does. He dreams of that dulcet tone soothing away the exhaustion in his bones, whispering sweet nothings into the shell of his ear. He does not want to unravel Fiedler, not really, not anymore. He wants to taste the honey between those lips, to bite into the heat of skin stretched too thin over protruding ribs.

Fielder is frayed, overwhelmed by his insatiable hunger for knowledge, for the cause. Leamas will hold him together, curling his fingers around the crumbling marble and feeling the edges smooth beneath his touch. He cannot resist Fiedler, and Fiedler cannot resist him.

There’s a phrase for this, he imagines. Mutually-assured destruction may be fitting. He does not think Fiedler loves him, does not think he is capable of love. But there is a reason Fiedler will allow Leamas to toy with the thread carelessly between his fingers, allowing himself to toe the precipice of coming undone. There is a reason Leamas does not tug, but relishes, devours.

It is a terrible, tragic melody and it will not end well, but Leamas cannot help but indulge.


End file.
